Speaker 1: Cool Zone Media book Club, book Club, book Club, boo Club.
Speaker 1: I've never gotten to do this booooky thing before. That's
Speaker 1: not true. I've probably done it every October, but I
Speaker 1: don't remember it, because why would I remember doing something cringey? Although,
Speaker 1: as they say, only the cringe are free, that shouldn't
Speaker 1: be our tagline here at Kolzon Media book Club, but
Speaker 1: it kind of could be, except actually I would say
Speaker 1: that this week's story isn't cringeing at all. It's just good.
Speaker 1: I'm the one who's cringey. I'm your host, Margaret Kiljoy.
Speaker 1: This is the only book club where you don't have
Speaker 1: to do the reading because I do it for you.
Speaker 1: There might be other book clubs where you don't have
Speaker 1: to do the reading because someone else does it for you,
Speaker 1: but it's not this one. Also, sometimes I resent my
Speaker 1: own choice in using that tagline, because while having a
Speaker 1: story read to you is different than reading, it's like,
Speaker 1: not so fundamentally different than reading. I listen to a
Speaker 1: lot of audiobooks, and I tell people I read those
Speaker 1: books because, you know what, every single word of them
Speaker 1: went into my brain. And what is reading besides having
Speaker 1: words go into your brain? Anyway? We're going to do
Speaker 1: some horror stories this month and this is one of them.
Speaker 1: oOoOO okay one more time. Woo. That's how you're supposed
Speaker 1: to do spooky Okay. First up this week, we have
Speaker 1: a story called Kushduka and it's by Matilda Zeller and
Speaker 1: it first appeared in the twenty twenty three collection Never
Speaker 1: Whistle at Night in Indigenous dark fiction anthology. It is
Speaker 1: a creature and a slasher centering around a figure, the Kushduka,
Speaker 1: which is common in the folklore of people native to
Speaker 1: so called Alaska. And as for what the creature is,
Speaker 1: I will let Matilda explain that to you in a
Speaker 1: second in the story. And it is a spooky story,
Speaker 1: and heads up that not everyone's going to make it out.
Speaker 1: You could probably guess that there's a little bit of gore,
Speaker 1: mostly off camera. I'll probably be doing more content warnings
Speaker 1: than usual for Spooky Month, because I don't know whatever.
Speaker 1: People of different ages and different desires of listening to
Speaker 1: things listen to things. I'm squeamish and this one was
Speaker 1: all right for me. As you listen, you should keep
Speaker 1: an ear out for what Matilda is doing with perspective.
Speaker 1: And now Kushduka by Matilda Zeller. You don't have to
Speaker 1: love him, just make his baby, Mama said, hanging the
Speaker 1: fleshy swath of salmon to dry. It might have colored eyes,
Speaker 1: you know, maybe blue eyes. He'll pay you to keep
Speaker 1: quiet about it. Mama had always been Machavelian, but this
Speaker 1: was next level. Not even the old ladies who gossiped
Speaker 1: about her would have guessed she'd tried to pull something
Speaker 1: like this. I shuddered and slid my knife up the
Speaker 1: side of another salmon, severing a long filet of red
Speaker 1: flesh and silver scales. The cold, wet flesh reminded me
Speaker 1: of Hank Ferryman's lips, which he constantly licked while talking
Speaker 1: to us village girls. His hands were wide and stubby,
Speaker 1: his cheeks were poked and ruddy, and his breath smelled
Speaker 1: like a caribou carcass that had been left out in
Speaker 1: the sun for a week. He's rich, Mama reminded me, unnecessarily,
Speaker 1: and I'm sure he wouldn't be wanting his wife back
Speaker 1: in Kansas, knowing he's got a kid up here. The
Speaker 1: money could really help, you know, He's probably got kids
Speaker 1: all over the Kobuk valley, I muttered, and I don't
Speaker 1: want to make anyone's baby, except maybe Paana's. But even then,
Speaker 1: that's not happening until after I finished college, which costs
Speaker 1: money that we don't have, which is why this conversation
Speaker 1: is happening in the first place. I brought down my
Speaker 1: knife too quickly through the filet and caught the side
Speaker 1: of my thumb. Blood blossomed along the cut, and I
Speaker 1: brought it reflexively to my mouth, the taste of my
Speaker 1: blood mingling with the fishes. Mama sucked her teeth. Stupid girl,
Speaker 1: go inside and clean that up. You're getting blood everywhere.
Speaker 1: The cut stung, but it was a way out of
Speaker 1: this conversation and away from Mama. I jogged back to
Speaker 1: the house, pressing my jacket sleeve around the cut, which
Speaker 1: extended from the tip of my thumb down the side
Speaker 1: of my palm. Not wanting to take the pressure off it,
Speaker 1: I kicked the door with my toe. It was Pana,
Speaker 1: not my Auna, who opened it. My heart fluttered a little,
Speaker 1: despite having known him my whole life. What do you
Speaker 1: do here? He grinned that perfect grin, complete with deep
Speaker 1: set dimples and one eye tooth missing, having tea with
Speaker 1: your Ana. Why not that I minded, But he was
Speaker 1: supposed to be on shift in the mines. There was
Speaker 1: an accident down at the mines. Frankie an o'clock, and
Speaker 1: a couple of the white guys too, you know the
Speaker 1: ones visiting from Kansas. Which white guys. Maybe one was
Speaker 1: Hank Ferryman. Maybe Mama would leave me alone. Then Jim
Speaker 1: and Bob. They all survived, but they're in really rough shape.
Speaker 1: Had to be flown to Fairbanks. Oh my heart sank
Speaker 1: a little. How did they get hurt? Pana's face darkened?
Speaker 1: Maybe you should come inside. Anna waited on the overstuffed
Speaker 1: chintz sofa, her dark eyes smiling at me from their
Speaker 1: nests of deep wrinkles. She was aged but ageless. I
Speaker 1: swear she hasn't changed since I was four years old.
Speaker 1: It was Sedna, Anna said, by way of greeting, she's
Speaker 1: the mistress of the underworld and they're mining into her domain.
Speaker 1: Hana shook his head. The foreman said it was a
Speaker 1: bear or maybe some wolves. A bear and maybe some wolves.
Speaker 1: Honor repeated cackling. He didn't even see what happened. He
Speaker 1: is throwing guesses into the dark. I sat down next
Speaker 1: to Pawna Sedna's mythology. Anna, Sedna is angry, Anna interrupted,
Speaker 1: they're coming uninvited and taking what's ours. They don't belong
Speaker 1: here in our land, in our beds. She clutched her
Speaker 1: draw tight, swallowing hard. But Sedna is gracious enough to
Speaker 1: give warning. She only tore their guts out. A wolf,
Speaker 1: for bear would have stayed to eat the guts. They
Speaker 1: wouldn't be alive in the hospital right now if it
Speaker 1: weren't for her grace. I turned to Pona my own innards, tightening.
Speaker 1: Their guts were torn out. Panna nodded, torn up across
Speaker 1: the abdomen, torn up everywhere. In fact, I raised a
Speaker 1: skeptical highbrow. And they're saying it was wolf wolves. Hanna
Speaker 1: shifted defensively. If they weren't sane, it was wolves, you
Speaker 1: know who, they'd be accusing us, all of us. I
Speaker 1: nodded my head. What did you do to your hand,
Speaker 1: Anna said, reaching for me with one hand and smacking
Speaker 1: Paana's knee with the other. Panna, why didn't you see
Speaker 1: she's hurt? Go get the bandages. Pauna jumped up to
Speaker 1: get them. He didn't need to ask where he knew
Speaker 1: my house as well as I did. As soon as
Speaker 1: he was out of the room, Anna leaned towards me.
Speaker 1: He wants to marry you, you know, I sighed, I know.
Speaker 1: Paanna had been saved last year by a visiting preacher
Speaker 1: and was now determined to marry me before I moved in.
Speaker 1: Common law marriage was what basically everyone else did, but
Speaker 1: not Pauna. No, he wanted to go to a little
Speaker 1: white chapel and promise God he'd love me first. Your
Speaker 1: grandfather married me first, Anna reminded me, smiling. I know,
Speaker 1: I repeated. I'd heard the story a million times, how
Speaker 1: he'd waited and saved until he could take Grandma and Eddie,
Speaker 1: her baby from a visiting school teacher all the way
Speaker 1: out to Fairbanks for a marriage and adoption. He'd wanted
Speaker 1: to do it properly, he said. She thought it was
Speaker 1: stupid at the time, but it had grown to be
Speaker 1: a major point of pride with her. I wasn't sure
Speaker 1: I saw the point. It was a lot of money,
Speaker 1: but Pana cared about doing it that way, and I
Speaker 1: cared about him. Pana returned with the first aid kits
Speaker 1: and pulled my hand into his lap. Gingerly unwrapping it
Speaker 1: from the jacket sleeve. I'm taking Hank Ferryman's boy hunting
Speaker 1: this weekend, he said, pouring some iodine onto a bit
Speaker 1: of gauze. Hank says he wants him toughened up out
Speaker 1: there on the tundra. I rolled my eyes. Panna and
Speaker 1: his crew would do no such thing, not if they
Speaker 1: wanted repeat business. They would take the kid out there,
Speaker 1: make him feel like a big tough hunter while doing
Speaker 1: all the actual work of packing things, unpacking things, and
Speaker 1: hauling things, and he would have stories to take back
Speaker 1: to his buddies in Kansas. It was about the kid's
Speaker 1: ego and the dad's too. I'm sure he'll shoot the
Speaker 1: biggest caribou known to man, I said, with razor sharp teeth.
Speaker 1: Pana grinned. By the time he gets back to Kansas
Speaker 1: will have turned into a polar bear that he killed
Speaker 1: with his own bare hands, added Anna, her face splitting
Speaker 1: into a wide grin, revealing teeth worn down by years
Speaker 1: of leather. Working like this, her hands made violent strangling motions.
Speaker 1: Pana and I melted into a fit of giggles, as
Speaker 1: if we were both ten instead of nearly twenty. Panna
Speaker 1: finished my hand and I stood reluctantly here with him,
Speaker 1: with my ana. This was my heart's home. Outside that
Speaker 1: door lay wolves and bears and Hank Ferrymen and Mama.
Speaker 1: When I returned to Mama, she was smiling. You have
Speaker 1: a job this weekend, a job with Hank Ferryman. He's
Speaker 1: having a party at his lodge. He needs hired help,
Speaker 1: you know, cooking, cleaning. A curdling feeling gathered around my ears.
Speaker 1: Why don't you go work for him? It was a
Speaker 1: stupid question that we both knew the answer to. Mamma
Speaker 1: rolled her eyes. I already told him you'd go, You're going. No, No.
Speaker 1: Mamma's hand tightened on the knife she was holding. I
Speaker 1: did my best not to look down at it. My
Speaker 1: heart trilled like it was trying to beat for three people.
Speaker 1: I don't want to. To my surprise, Mamma's grip loosened
Speaker 1: on the knife and she shrugged. Maybe I'll send esther.
Speaker 1: Then my mouth went dry. Esther was my fifteen year
Speaker 1: old sister, my sweet compliant sister. Mamma wouldn't She couldn't
Speaker 1: as I stared at her, though I knew she would.
Speaker 1: I'll go. I picked up my ulu and rocked it
Speaker 1: across the salmon, chopping its head. That's what I thought,
Speaker 1: Mama replied. Some days I hate her. But do you
Speaker 1: know what we don't hate. You're a cool Zone Media
Speaker 1: book club. We don't hate all of our advertisers. That's right,
Speaker 1: not all of them. In fact, you can play a
Speaker 1: game called listen to these ads and decide which ones
Speaker 1: you hate, or you could skip them. I don't actually care.
Speaker 1: And we're back the land of the midnight Sun, bellowed
Speaker 1: Hank Ferryman, punching my shoulder playfully, more like the land
Speaker 1: of six PM bedtime. Was he always this loud? Or
Speaker 1: was the closeness of the truck amplifying his voice? He
Speaker 1: chortled at his own joke. Topisa, Hey Tappy, I cringed
Speaker 1: at the improvised nickname. Tell me a native story, I
Speaker 1: shook my head. That's a bad idea. The sun had
Speaker 1: set an hour ago, and we were bumping over the
Speaker 1: half frozen ground in the dark, with nothing but the
Speaker 1: truck's headlights standing between us and the darkness. Snow had
Speaker 1: begun to fall, thick and fast. Alone with someone like
Speaker 1: him in the darkness like this, seemed the worst possible
Speaker 1: place to bring up the stories that could catch the
Speaker 1: attention of a spirit. It's a swell idea, Hank Ferryman
Speaker 1: doesn't make bad ideas. Don't forget I hired you for
Speaker 1: the evening. The last sentence felt like lead between us.
Speaker 1: He had hired me to cook and clean for his party,
Speaker 1: not tell him stories. I wasn't hired to do whatever
Speaker 1: he felt like doing. My hands curled into fists. Still,
Speaker 1: maybe you would shut him up. Fine, fine, I racked
Speaker 1: my brain, But in the dark darkness I could think
Speaker 1: of nothing bright and benign. There once was a girl
Speaker 1: named Sedna. Her father threw her over the edge of
Speaker 1: his fishing boat. She tried to save herself by catching
Speaker 1: onto the ledge of the boat, but he brought a
Speaker 1: knife down onto her fingers and cut them all off.
Speaker 1: They became the first seals, walruses whales. She became the
Speaker 1: goddess of the underworld. Hank waved his hand impatiently. I
Speaker 1: already know about Sedna. I got your buddy Pana to
Speaker 1: tell me about her. Tell me something new. I pulled
Speaker 1: my coat tighter around me. There are kushduka. They appear
Speaker 1: to us taking on the appearances of those we love.
Speaker 1: They try to get us to go with them, to
Speaker 1: go with them where I pulled my coat even tighter,
Speaker 1: suddenly feeling cold. I don't know. Hank was quiet for
Speaker 1: a blessed minute. Then he let out a guttural snort
Speaker 1: that blossomed into full blown laughter. Oh you call that
Speaker 1: a ghost, missy. Your ghost stories are as bad as
Speaker 1: your watermelons up here. We don't have watermelons up here,
Speaker 1: Damn straight, you don't. I can tell you some ghost
Speaker 1: stories from Kansas that put hair on your chest. In fact,
Speaker 1: my head slammed into a dashboard as Hank floored the brake,
Speaker 1: sending us into a fishtail. When the car finally stopped,
Speaker 1: he sat, his chest heaving as he stared out at
Speaker 1: the road ahead of us. A figure stood before us
Speaker 1: in the headlights, cloaked in heavy furs, black hair tumbled
Speaker 1: down in wild rivulets to her elbows. She pushed back
Speaker 1: the rough of her parka. She was me, or would
Speaker 1: have been, were it not for the pupils that covered
Speaker 1: the whole of her eyes and the hideous, obscenely wide
Speaker 1: grin that distorted the lower half of her face. Hank
Speaker 1: let out a small scream as he floored the gas
Speaker 1: ramming straight into her. A thunder roll of sickening thuds
Speaker 1: juttered through me. She tumbled up and over the hood
Speaker 1: of the truck. I looked behind us, but saw nothing
Speaker 1: in the tail lights. As Hank continued to pick up speed,
Speaker 1: his breathing ragged and shallow. He muttered to himself thickly
Speaker 1: for a moment, before looking over at me with a
Speaker 1: little nervous laugh. Some deer you got out here? Huh?
Speaker 1: I stared. That wasn't a deer. Don't be stupid, Hank coughed.
Speaker 1: I saw my own two eyes. You saw it with yours.
Speaker 1: It was a deer playing as the nose on your face.
Speaker 1: A gentle tapping noise sounded on the glass behind me.
Speaker 1: I shuddered, unable to turn around. I think there's something
Speaker 1: in the bed of the truck. Hank's hands tightened on
Speaker 1: the steering wheel. No, there isn't. Do you hear that.
Speaker 1: I felt those eyes on the back of my head.
Speaker 1: Those eyes all see black pupil, wide and hungry. All
Speaker 1: I hear is you try to amp me up. Wasn't
Speaker 1: enough to tell me your ghost stories? You want to
Speaker 1: spook me now. His body stiffened at the noise. Stop
Speaker 1: it to Pisa, it's not funny at all. It's not me.
Speaker 1: Surely he could see both my hands silent in my lap.
Speaker 1: He huffed impatiently, but didn't say anything else. The tapping stopped,
Speaker 1: He relaxed. He laughed a little. You really had me
Speaker 1: going for a minute there. I didn't reply. There was
Speaker 1: no point. By the time we reached his lodge in
Speaker 1: oversized monstrosity on the edge of the lake, he was
Speaker 1: back to cracking bad jokes and resting his hand on
Speaker 1: my knee, removing it when I batted him off, only
Speaker 1: to drop it there again a second later. You'll love
Speaker 1: this place. I can't believe I've been taking you out
Speaker 1: here yet. I had everything flown in from anchorage. It's
Speaker 1: all custom, top of the line. He was grinning like
Speaker 1: a kid. I hated his familiarity, as if I were
Speaker 1: a friend who hadn't gotten around a visiting instead of
Speaker 1: a village girl whose mother he'd leveraged to drag me
Speaker 1: out here. He slipped out his side of the truck,
Speaker 1: swinging back his keys and whistling. I sat on the
Speaker 1: passenger side, my dread growing in the stillness. I turned
Speaker 1: this time and saw her. She was me, this cushduka
Speaker 1: with inky black eyes and black hair, billowing and wild.
Speaker 1: When her eyes met her face split again into that
Speaker 1: freakishly wide grin that nearly reached her ears and revealed
Speaker 1: pointed molars, meat eating molars, flesh ripping molars. Hank's voice
Speaker 1: registered from somewhere in front of the truck. Aren't you
Speaker 1: coming to Pisa? I opened my mouth and closed it again,
Speaker 1: unable to bring myself to make a sound. The kushduka
Speaker 1: tapped the back window of the truck once more with
Speaker 1: a long black fingernail and disappeared. I tore my eyes
Speaker 1: from the back window to see him trundling over to
Speaker 1: the door. You're one of those fussy, old fashioned girls,
Speaker 1: aren't you. You want a big strong man to open
Speaker 1: the door for you. Is that it? He chuckled to
Speaker 1: himself and opened my door. I climbed out, scared to
Speaker 1: take my eyes off the truck bed, as if doing
Speaker 1: so would make the kushduka materialize again and leap on us,
Speaker 1: ripping at us with those pointed teeth. The lodge was massive,
Speaker 1: with vaulted ceilings and mounted animal heads everywhere. Above the
Speaker 1: fireplace hung two spears crossed over each other, like they
Speaker 1: were European swords or something. But they weren't European. They
Speaker 1: were into it. I recognized the carvings on them, the
Speaker 1: worn leather bindings that secured the pointed stone ends. Those spears. Artifacts.
Speaker 1: They're incredible, aren't they genuine? Ancient artifacts? You know they're
Speaker 1: my grandfathers. Hank Ferryman smile stayed frozen on his face.
Speaker 1: After a pregnant pause, he laughed, you're mistaken. There are
Speaker 1: so many spears out there like these. I recognize the carving.
Speaker 1: They're nothing indigenous motifs that have been carved a thousand
Speaker 1: times over the back of My neck felt tight beyond cringing.
Speaker 1: If they're not his, Where did you get them? Hank shrugged,
Speaker 1: as if I'd asked a stupid question. My secretary found
Speaker 1: them for me, found them, stole them, more likely from
Speaker 1: my widow to Anna found them, bought them. It doesn't matter.
Speaker 1: You're here to work. There's the kitchen, He pointed to
Speaker 1: a corner of the lodge sectioned off by granite countertops.
Speaker 1: My secretary was here earlier. They've dropped off recipes and
Speaker 1: groceries for tonight's dinner. I stalked over the kitchen and
Speaker 1: grabbed the ulu that was sitting on the wood holder
Speaker 1: on the counter. Hank bounded over and snatched out from
Speaker 1: my hands. That's an artifact, it's for decoration. I looked
Speaker 1: down at the ullu in his hands. It was newly sharpened.
Speaker 1: The balan handle was worn, polished to a bright shine
Speaker 1: from all the times it had been gripped. I wonder
Speaker 1: who's anna he stole this from. It's a tool for cutting.
Speaker 1: Hank rolled his eyes. You are basically white. Your dad's
Speaker 1: dad was white, your mother is white. You should be
Speaker 1: able to understand that modern knives are better. He pointed
Speaker 1: to the block of knives on the counter, carbon steel,
Speaker 1: flown in from Japan, top of the line. Try them, honey,
Speaker 1: I promise you'll never go back to an ulu. If
Speaker 1: he saw I was shaking with rage, he didn't show it.
Speaker 1: I strode to the knife block and drew out the
Speaker 1: largest one, grabbing a cutting board and a bag of potatoes.
Speaker 1: Before I could give in to my urge to run
Speaker 1: him through with it. See now, isn't that fabulous? Hank
Speaker 1: Ferryman pumped a fist, as if he had just taught
Speaker 1: me to fish and I'd caught one. He didn't wait
Speaker 1: for a reply before continuing, I'll go to take a piss.
Speaker 1: Make sure the champagne is in the fridge, will you.
Speaker 1: No one likes it warm. And you know here at
Speaker 1: cool Zone Media, we serve all of our products and
Speaker 1: services freshly chilled, just how everyone likes them. And we're back.
Speaker 1: I made dinner. Other men showed up and ate, made
Speaker 1: passes at me, laughed and talked to Hank. I passed
Speaker 1: the hours in a deep, fuzzy rage, forcing myself with
Speaker 1: the motions of arranging canopies on a plate, pulling a
Speaker 1: roast from the oven, slicing it up on a serving tray.
Speaker 1: I couldn't bring myself to fake smile at them. There
Speaker 1: was something outside the house that was clearly murderous and
Speaker 1: looked just like me. There was something inside of me
Speaker 1: that was clearly murderous and felt nothing like me. Someone
Speaker 1: popped the cork off the champagne bottle and I jumped,
Speaker 1: letting out a small scream. The room exploded with laughter,
Speaker 1: and Hank grinned at me, pushing a champagne glass over
Speaker 1: the counter. Towards me. You clearly need to loosen up.
Speaker 1: I pushed it back towards him and left for the bathroom.
Speaker 1: I needed to be somewhere, anywhere, away from these people.
Speaker 1: I locked the bathroom door and pulled myself onto the counter,
Speaker 1: leaning my head back against the mirror. It was colder here,
Speaker 1: a welcome relief from the heat in the main area.
Speaker 1: I breathed deep, sizing up my options, wondering if I
Speaker 1: could get the police to look into how Hank got
Speaker 1: my grandfather's spears, if they would actually care at all.
Speaker 1: Probably not. Heavy dragging sound slid across the hall outside
Speaker 1: the bathroom, I looked down, watching a shadow pass along
Speaker 1: the crack under the door. The air filled with a
Speaker 1: thick smell of old fish. The shadow paused. I pressed
Speaker 1: my lips together, hardly daring to breathe. After an eternity,
Speaker 1: the shadow continued on past the bathroom door and down
Speaker 1: the hall. I slipped off the counter and stood in
Speaker 1: front of the door. The murmur of laughter and conversation
Speaker 1: went silent. Hank Ferryman's voice broke the silence to pisa,
Speaker 1: I told you to leave the artifacts alone. His voice
Speaker 1: should have sounded plaintive, but it didn't. It trembled. A
Speaker 1: scream tore through the air, followed by a trampoline of feet,
Speaker 1: breaking of glasses, more screams. I sat on the counter,
Speaker 1: my mouth growing dry. Someone was running up the hall
Speaker 1: towards me. The handle to the bathroom door rattled, followed
Speaker 1: by pounding that made the door vibrate. Let me in.
Speaker 1: The heavy crack of a skull on the floor proceeded
Speaker 1: a wet, tearing sound. Something dark seeped under the bathroom door,
Speaker 1: and it wasn't until the smell hit me that I
Speaker 1: fully registered what it was. Blood. Primal growls turned into
Speaker 1: satisfied chewing and smacking noises. I pressed my back against
Speaker 1: the bathroom mirror, drawing my knees to my chest. My
Speaker 1: heart thudded in my ears, and my breathing sounded too loud.
Speaker 1: It that Kushduka would hear me, It that creature would
Speaker 1: find me. My blood would join with the blood on
Speaker 1: the floor. After what felt like an eternity, a rustling
Speaker 1: of furs and patting of feet told me it was leaving.
Speaker 1: I heard the front door banging open, the sound of
Speaker 1: feet on gravel walking away. I couldn't stay here. It
Speaker 1: could come back, it would back. I needed to get
Speaker 1: home to my auna and her shotgun. Would a shotgun
Speaker 1: work against a kushtuca? Surely it would. If it weren't
Speaker 1: flesh and blood itself, it wouldn't be able to do
Speaker 1: whatever it just did. I dropped to the floor as
Speaker 1: silently as I could, holding my breath while I turned
Speaker 1: the doorknob. I had seen a lot of blood in
Speaker 1: my life. I had gutted fish and caribou, slaughtered ducks,
Speaker 1: and sliced up eels. But that was orderly, deliberate, purposeful.
Speaker 1: This this was not that. Bloody footprints covered the floor,
Speaker 1: blood spatters and smears graced the walls. There weren't men here.
Speaker 1: There were pieces of men and trails of men. I
Speaker 1: took a step forward and my foot grazed something wet.
Speaker 1: I looked down. It was an eye, blood shot across
Speaker 1: the silera. It rolled, revealing a blue iris as blue
Speaker 1: as hanks. I fell into a squat, hugging my knees,
Speaker 1: pressing my toes down to stop myself from falling into
Speaker 1: the mess. I didn't want to touch the ground. I
Speaker 1: didn't want to touch anything. I pressed my shoulders between
Speaker 1: my knees and vomited. Outside Hank's sled dogs started barking.
Speaker 1: Working up into a panic, I looked around. I had
Speaker 1: to get out of here. Hank's keys had been in
Speaker 1: his pocket, but now I could barely bring myself to
Speaker 1: cast my eyes around the room again. This was a search.
Speaker 1: I couldn't undertake the dogs. The dogs would take me
Speaker 1: home and away from that thing, whatever that thing was.
Speaker 1: I grabbed my grandfather's spear off the wall, the ulu
Speaker 1: off the counter, and stepped lightly out onto the gravel.
Speaker 1: New snow was starting to fall, dusting the gravel and
Speaker 1: recoding the already fallen snow in the yard. I pressed
Speaker 1: my back into the log exterior and side stepped towards
Speaker 1: the barn where the huskies were. Their barking had died down,
Speaker 1: and now they were all panting and whimpering anxiously. I
Speaker 1: stepped into the shadowy barn, straining my eyes against the darkness.
Speaker 1: If she was in here, they'd know, wouldn't they. If
Speaker 1: she was still there, they'd still be barking. But they weren't.
Speaker 1: They were just whimpering and staring at me. Still. My
Speaker 1: scalp prickled. She'd be coming back. Something deep inside me
Speaker 1: knew it. I grabbed their harness and began hooking them
Speaker 1: up as quickly as I could, praying that the snow
Speaker 1: is deep enough that the dogs would nowhere to go,
Speaker 1: that I wouldn't fall off. I'd driven a sledge a
Speaker 1: few times before, but I wasn't good at it, not
Speaker 1: by a long shot. Something shuffled in the dark. The
Speaker 1: dogs whining intensified. My hand shook as they buckled the
Speaker 1: last clasp, and I jumped onto the runners. Something shuffled again,
Speaker 1: and the rancid fish smell filled the air. She was here, go,
Speaker 1: I hissed to the dogs. Mush sh The dogs whimpered,
Speaker 1: looking around anxiously. I tried to whistle at them, but
Speaker 1: my mouth was too dry. Something bit into my arm,
Speaker 1: sharp and cold. I screamed, and the dogs took off
Speaker 1: like a shot. I snatched the handle with one hand
Speaker 1: and slapped the kushduka with the other. Her nails dug
Speaker 1: into my flesh, and searing cold shot through me. I
Speaker 1: raised the arm she was gripping and bit down hard
Speaker 1: on her hand. A scream echoed across the tundra as
Speaker 1: she fell back and weak gained speed. I looked over
Speaker 1: my shoulder and saw her in the moonlight, a dark,
Speaker 1: spidery figure loping towards us across the white snow. I
Speaker 1: shook the reins, urging the dogs to go faster. The
Speaker 1: sound of her awkward lope and heavy breathing grew louder.
Speaker 1: We swerved through scrub brush. She bounded over it. She
Speaker 1: was gaining on us. Blam. A shot rang out across
Speaker 1: the hill. Blam. It was a shotgun. Who on Earth
Speaker 1: was shooting their gun at this time of night? Blam.
Speaker 1: I prayed the bullet would miss us, that it would
Speaker 1: find my kush Duca. We had come into the river,
Speaker 1: and the dog swerved to run parallel to it. The
Speaker 1: kushduka cut the corner, closing the distance between us. I
Speaker 1: could feel her breath on the back of my hand.
Speaker 1: Smell the blood and fetid flesh. Blam. The smell subsided.
Speaker 1: I looked back behind me and she was on the ground, inert.
Speaker 1: The dog slowed to a walk, and my knees buckled
Speaker 1: with relief. Blam. Why were they still shooting? The kushduca
Speaker 1: was dead. Someone grabbed me, throwing a hand over my
Speaker 1: mouth and another around my waist, tackling me to the ground.
Speaker 1: Don't say a word. It was Pana. Buck Hanks, boy
Speaker 1: has absolutely lost his mind. I nodded. We crawled behind
Speaker 1: a rock and sat stock still fleeing our breathing with
Speaker 1: our coat sleeves. Footsteps grated across the stones on the
Speaker 1: river bank. I got one, two, three, little Indians all
Speaker 1: for me, Buck sang. I ignored Pana's whispered protests and
Speaker 1: peeked around the boulder to see Hank Ferryman's son nudge
Speaker 1: the inert Kushduca with the barrel of his rifle. You're
Speaker 1: an ugly one, aren't you, he muttered. The kushduca shifted.
Speaker 1: Buck nudged the Kashduca with the butt of his rifle.
Speaker 1: Are you dead? Or do I need to blast you again?
Speaker 1: He spoke as if he were offering a complimentary turn
Speaker 1: down service at a fancy hotel, rather than threatening mortal violence.
Speaker 1: The Kushduca made a quiet whimpering sound. Or better yet,
Speaker 1: perhaps with my own hands. He dropped to his knees
Speaker 1: and put his hands around the Koshduca's throat. It made
Speaker 1: a strangled sound, writhing against his tightening grip. A knot
Speaker 1: twisted in my stomach. I should have been relieved to
Speaker 1: see the Kushduca go, But in that moment, she looked
Speaker 1: at me. She looked like me. Somehow, she was me.
Speaker 1: Buck squeezed harder, and she kicked and flailed her foot,
Speaker 1: connecting with the butt of the gun, sending it skittering
Speaker 1: towards me across the snow. Ignoring Pana's protests, I lunged forward,
Speaker 1: grabbing it and bringing it level, jamming the butt into
Speaker 1: my shoulder. Stop. My voice didn't sound like mine. It
Speaker 1: sounded desperate, primeval, superhuman. My finger went to the trigger.
Speaker 1: My voice trembled when I spoke, you're killing her. Stop.
Speaker 1: I fired a warning shot above his head, and he
Speaker 1: froze and slowly stood, hands above his head, turning to
Speaker 1: fix me with a grin as ugly and unsettling as
Speaker 1: the kushdukas. Those devil natives thought they could abandon me,
Speaker 1: he said through his manic grin. They were wrong. They
Speaker 1: were all wrong. I showed them. Pana stood up now,
Speaker 1: turning a fl flashlight on Buck, his blonde hair and
Speaker 1: pale face, his expensive thermal coat and snow pants. They
Speaker 1: were all spattered in blood. My finger went back to
Speaker 1: the trigger. He wouldn't be missed. His father was already dead.
Speaker 1: If he lived, he'd kill and kill again. He'd kill
Speaker 1: my people, he'd kill Pana. I leveled the gun at
Speaker 1: him and took aim. Warm gentle hands covered my hands,
Speaker 1: and I heard Pana's voice in my ear. Please don't.
Speaker 1: He isn't worth what we'll pay for this. The tightness
Speaker 1: welling up in my chest broke into a sob. I
Speaker 1: lowered the gun. This was it, how we all ended,
Speaker 1: defeated by their brutality in a world that would choose
Speaker 1: them and forget about us. Buck screamed, there was a
Speaker 1: spear in him. The Kushduka on the ground held the spear,
Speaker 1: grinning widely. I was on the ground holding the spear.
Speaker 1: I was holding it with my own hands. As Buck's
Speaker 1: blood trickled down and warmed them, I let it go,
Speaker 1: scrambling to my feet as he fell. There were bruises
Speaker 1: around my neck. My throat hurt when I breathed. Where
Speaker 1: was the Kushduca? Where was Pawna. Buck fell onto his back,
Speaker 1: the spear sticking straight up out of him. Pana lowered
Speaker 1: the rifle, tears streaming down his face. I thought he
Speaker 1: was going to kill you. The Kushtuca Buck went on
Speaker 1: a rampage. Both elders who came with us hunting are dead.
Speaker 1: There was a Kushduca. The Kushduca killed him. She was
Speaker 1: right here. She looked just like me. Pana opened his
Speaker 1: mouth the protests that looked down at Buck. He took
Speaker 1: a deep breath. You know what, to Pisa, I think
Speaker 1: you were right. I think there was a Cushduca. I
Speaker 1: pulled my hands into the thick furs I was wearing.
Speaker 1: They were beautifully made. The trim was black, with little
Speaker 1: red flowers and green leaves trailing along the edge. They
Speaker 1: were hand made artifacts. Even I thought I saw that
Speaker 1: hanging in Hank Ferryman's lodge. Pana said, it looks like
Speaker 1: the one my ana made. Once I walked to the sled,
Speaker 1: my legs shaking. Let's take it back to her then, okay,
Speaker 1: Pana nodded, tossing one last glance over her shoulder at Buck.
Speaker 1: His freshly dead body smelled good, so good. I was
Speaker 1: sure the wolves would find him soon. I swallowed the
Speaker 1: saliva gathering in my mouth. Come on, Pana, I think
Speaker 1: I have your Hona's ulu on that dog Sled should
Speaker 1: be wanting it back. Pana paused, then nodded, taking my arm.
Speaker 1: Thanks to Pisa, I smiled, you, my dear, are most
Speaker 1: certainly welcome the end. I like that story a lot.
Speaker 1: I I don't know, I don't have a ton to
Speaker 1: say about it. I like when stories have kind of
Speaker 1: like clear metaphors but not quite like beating you over
Speaker 1: the head metaphors, and how you can interpret this like
Speaker 1: a little bit more or less literally depending on how
Speaker 1: you want to, and neither way feels false. Like sometimes
Speaker 1: when things are sort of uncertain, you're like, it feels lazy,
Speaker 1: and this happens actually, especially in movies for me, But
Speaker 1: I don't feel that way at all about this one.
Speaker 1: I just like this idea that inside of us is
Speaker 1: this certain capacity, and that capacity can kind of be
Speaker 1: understood as something external to us as well. That goes
Speaker 1: along well with my sort of metaphysical views of the
Speaker 1: world or whatever. Anyway, Hazel, who helps me pick out
Speaker 1: the stories, really loves how Matilda the author builds tensions
Speaker 1: so seamlessly in this story, weaving routine horrors like extractive
Speaker 1: energy and racialized sexual violence in with the supernaw natural stuff.
Speaker 1: It sort of unnormalizes that stuff and brings the horror
Speaker 1: that underpins much of our current systems into focus. It's
Speaker 1: one of the things that makes horror so fun, using fear, disgust,
Speaker 1: and intensity to investigate underlying truth. So, yeah, it's Spooky
Speaker 1: Month where the real monster was colonialism all along. Y'all
Speaker 1: probably could have seen that coming because it's Cools on
Speaker 1: Media book Club and we all know that colonialism was
Speaker 1: the real monster all along. We'll be back next week
Speaker 1: with another horror treat for your ears. In the meantime,
Speaker 1: you can keep up with Matilda Zeller online at Matilda
Speaker 1: Zeller dot WordPress dot com. How do you spell Matilda Zeller,
Speaker 1: you might ask, Well, I'm going to tell you. You spell
Speaker 1: Matilda M A T H I L d A and
Speaker 1: you spell Zeller z E L l E R. So
Speaker 1: that's Matilda Zeller dot org, WordPress dot com. And I'm
Speaker 1: Margaret Kiljoy and you can follow me wherever you want.
Speaker 1: I don't know, I okay, Well, whatever, it's spooky month.
Speaker 1: My last book is spooky. It's called The Immortal Choir
Speaker 1: Holds Every Voice and it's three story set in the
Speaker 1: Daniel Kine Universe. It's the third book of the Daniel
Speaker 1: Kaine series, which you can listen to the first two
Speaker 1: on this very podcast, and you can go and listen
Speaker 1: to the third one without having well, yeah, read the
Speaker 1: third one that I haven't done in the audiobook yet
Speaker 1: because I would record the audiobook, but for some reason,
Speaker 1: I'm recording this every week whatever. I like my job.
Speaker 1: It's called the Immortal Choir Holds every Voice, and you
Speaker 1: can read it. It's out from Strangers in the Tangled Wilderness,
Speaker 1: which is a anarchist collective and support worker owned businesses
Speaker 1: and take care of each other and decolonize Turtle Island
Speaker 1: and stop the genocide and take care of each other.
Speaker 1: And it'd be good to each other because we're all
Speaker 1: we've got. Oh no, I went earn it spooky. It
Speaker 1: could Happen here as a production of cool Zone Media.
Speaker 1: For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website
Speaker 1: coolzonemedia dot com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app,
Speaker 1: Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can
Speaker 1: find sources for It Could Happen Here, updated monthly at
Speaker 1: Coolzonmedia dot com slash sources. Thanks for listening,